For Two
by MissPixel
Summary: Eddie broke his wrist and suddenly refuses to ride... typical just when Elise is counting on him for tomorrow's Peak to Valley race.
1. Chapter 1

Greetings, Earthlings. Take me to your area of highest web traffic.

Or, y'know, leader works too.

Welcome to my first ever SSX fanfic, which takes place roughly as if On Tour never happened. Cause frankly, then we'd have all those perfect little Mary-Sue snowboarders and skiers taking over the site, and that would be bad. Therefore, I present you with the...

DISCLAIMER! All characters are copyright EA.

Now that that's over with, on with the show, which is pretty much Elise-centric, with a bit of Moby and some others.

* * *

Elise Riggs blinked once. 

The thought crossed her mind that perhaps, if she blinked one more time, or hit herself on the head with a large golden mallet, the last two sentences she'd heard on her M-Comm might simply disappear forever.

She blinked again, but there was still dead silence. As far as she could tell, it wasn't a nightmare; she was still standing just off center of the lodge floor, having stopped in her tracks from shock just a few seconds ago, and was still the brunt of a contentious glare from the innkeeper for a reason she didn't quite know.

"I'm sorry," Elise spoke sweetly into the M-Comm finally, "I'm sorry, Wachowski, can you repeat that?"

"Uh," came the voice on the other end, "I sorta told you, Elise, and I sorta know you heard me – "

"Eddie," the blonde Canadian retorted, "when I tell you to repeat that, what I actually mean is _who the goddamn hell do you think you are?"_

"Ed Wachowski, super snowboarder extreme," Eddie replied flippantly with a grin audible in his voice, "who, by the way, has broken his wrist and cannot ride tomorrow, as he has already told his riding partner Elise Riggs – "

"Shut up!" she exclaimed incredulously. "How can you still be talking? You should be hiding in a ditch somewhere before I come beat you over the head with your own arm! You break your wrist – _wrist, _Ed, as in 'extremity we do not use for snowboarding with our _legs_' – and then you tell me you can't goddamn ride?"

"Man, Elise…"

He scratched his enormous Afro. She could tell by the length and tone of the pause.

"It's not really that much of a big deal."

Elise began to scream.

"What the hell do you mean? It's a big deal, Eddie! It's a pretty big goddamn deal! Peak to Valley can make or break your career! I'm not giving up the gold to frikking Moby and Zoe just because my partner is a _stupid whining shit!_"

With that she tore the receiver from her ear and slammed it shut against her thigh with more force than she'd intended – the antenna broke off and skittered across the floor to stop at the feet of a very happy-looking Marisol Diez Delgado. The latter didn't take many pains to hide her smirk; by now Marisol didn't have to know what was making Elise unhappy – she just had to know Elise was unhappy.

_Bitch. Bet you're just loving this._

With a long-suffering groan, Elise sank into the nearest comfy armchair and contemplated crying.

"Stupid Eddie, stupid Eddie, stupid Eddie," she began to chant quietly as she slammed her hand repeatedly into her forehead. Maybe if she did it for long enough, she could go Psymon's way and become completely insane before having to deal with the collapse of her entire career.

"Oi, Curves, not many of 'em brain cells there, but y' might need 'em."

Elise turned her death-glare on as Moby Jones took a seat across from her, sitting back and lounging across the chair as if he were a strange malleable bean-bag… a bean-bag with too many tattoos and an abrasive attitude, and such strange taste in women that it made her want to puke.

_Bad, _Elise told herself inwardly as she tried not to growl at him, _bad bitchy Elise. Moby equals friend, not satisfyingly targetable scratching post._

"Wot's up?" the Brit asked with annoyingly effusive cheeriness.

"Shut the hell up," Elise snapped at him, "you know what's up. You and Zoe got the gold wrapped up, since Eddie 'I'm all that' Wachowski just broke his pansy-ass wrist and refuses to ride. Ugh!" she added loudly, slamming her wrist into the armchair

"Wot now?"

"I just remembered the time I snagged my arm on a rock and broke it, and still came home from Merqury with a platinum. You remember that? You remember that, don't you; don't try to change the subject! And _why_," she hissed as an addition as she threw her finger accusatorily at the still-glaring receptionist, "is that idiot staring at me?"

"Hair," Moby replied, wagging a finger towards her ponytail, which was still dripping onto the floor from her recent shower.

"…oh."

The anger came back fairly quickly, and just for spite, Elise wrung her soaking ponytail violently, twisting it in such a way that the most water possible came spouting out of it, spiraling towards the floor and viciously splashing all over the elaborately embroidered carpet.

"You're changing the subject again!" she snapped, winding back her fist in a manner that wasn't originally supposed to be threatening, but judging from Moby's surprised expression, did a good job of scaring him.

"I ain't changing the subject; you are," Moby said defensively as he put his hands up in mock surrender, "Bloody hell. Bitin' people's heads off like that, not gonna up yer popularity ante much. Didn't even do nothing."

"I don't care anymore," Elise wailed quietly, "my life is over."

"Tag-team's not jus' fer two," Moby continued, his inexplicable liveliness an obvious indicator that he knew a tag-team race was, in fact, just for two, and that whether or not Elise liked it, she was doomed.

"Peak to Valley with one person," she grumbled in response, "why don't you do that and then get back to me, okay?"

"Yeh, guess it'll do a number on the legs, eh? Not that yours need it, though, righ'?"

He punctuated the statement with a wink. Elise merely sneered.

"Yeah, take a number, will you… ugh, crap."

"Wot's that?" Moby asked, following her line of sight to the entrance of the lodge, where a large group of people had mysteriously converged without making a sound or an indication of their arrival. They were waving projectors and lighting equipment, and they reeked of tabloids.

_They got sneakier. Bastards._

Normally she would have been happy to stay and pose for a photo shoot, but right now she was in a bad mood, and she knew better than anyone that tabloid photographers loved to exploit one of two things: PMS and slugfests, the latter usually involving a catfight or two.

Moby's dreadlocks flipped her way as he turned to look at the sea of waving cameras, and Elise decided she'd take the moment to slip quietly away, hoping severely that none of the photographers had noticed her. Dragging her board behind her, she leapt from her chair and scurried across the carpeted floor, heading straight for the entrance with her head down, hood pulled over her head.

She reached the back door of the inn without being spotted and pulled it open. As she left, she just vaguely heard Moby yelling in a loud, contemptuous voice, and once again realized why she liked him so much.

"_Oi! She ain't here, mates. Try next mountain over!" _

_

* * *

_

Thank you. I shall refrain from taking a bow as I'm sure opinions are mixed.

Give it a chance, though. Review please!


	2. Chapter 2

Finally crawled up out of my little hermit-hole... maybe I'll update.

I like this story. I enjoy writing this story, so therefore I shall continue it. I have no idea where it's going, though, so suggestions might be helpful.

Disclaimer: I might be able to 'negotiate' the rights to SSX if I were about four feet taller and owned Nate's wood-chopping axe, a grenade of any kind, and a large sawed-off shotgun ... but until I get a growth spurt and the right to bear weapons, EA Games gets to keep it.

* * *

When she was safely outside the lodge door, finally escaping the blinding spotlight – as well as a few spiteful glares from some select enemies – all Elise could think of was heading to the nearest ski shop to buy one of those thick, ridiculous parkas Atomika loved so much. All she had was a flimsy black zip-up that was more geared towards displaying her generous attributes than actual functionality… and additionally, one tended not to notice the biting cold while flying over buildings a good fifty feet in the air. 

She glanced down at her wrist before remembering that she'd broken her latest watch on a run just a few days ago (same place, too: a nasty crunch rail at the junction between Metro and Merqury city). No matter, though – the sky was dark, but it couldn't be much later than eight. She had time to head to the lifts, and make a few last runs before tomorrow's dreaded tag-team races, for which she currently had no partner.

_Stupid Eddie_.

She'd liked him – _really_ liked him; more than she'd ever let him know – right up until she'd finally found out how much of a lazy clod he could be. At first glance Eddie was funny and easygoing, with a way about him that was capable of making anyone feel good without him ever saying a word – and then, of course, there was the hair, which was more than a little comical. But now that she knew him so well, after being his riding partner for more than a year, she couldn't honestly say she was surprised that he'd called in absent the very moment she needed him the most.

A slight shiver of fear snaked down Elise's arms as she saw something move up ahead. She considered screaming as she saw a pair of malformed limbs raise something high above a gnarled, shapeless figure –

_An axe!_

She held her breath sharply as the shadowy axe descended, and jumped as she heard the impact – but if it was flesh the axe had struck, then the victim had the skin of a sawhorse.

She moved closer, feeling somewhat foolish. Of course: she was only jumpy because it was a snowy evening, and that warped anyone's image. Whoever it was – an old man, some lonely outcast, whatever – was chopping wood.

Uneasiness was replaced by confusion and incredulity. Who in their right mind would be out in this weather, instead of inside somewhere warm?

"Hello?"

The figure looked up sharply, and as Elise got closer she could finally make out some of its features. Her eyebrows shot up as she saw the face on her imaginary axe-murderer – not an old geezer, nor a dorky loser, but pure, unadulterated hotness in a cowboy hat. What had caused the distortion of the shadow was not a strange defect but a suede palomino jacket lined with fur that fit loosely over his arms, and the strange shape of his head was due to the fact that his hair was shaved to the scalp.

Seeing her, the man was apparently unimpressed, and merely snorted and went back to work on his much more interesting wood. Elise ignored him back and prepared to walk away, with the rationale that if he was really so uninterested as to not say a word back to her, than she really didn't care to push it. However, she stopped as she spied something long and oblong in the distance, propped up against the tires of a large Jeep. The SSX logo was emblazoned onto the lower side of the desert-bronzed board.

"You're a competitor?" Elise asked in complete astonishment, looking back at the board's owner. He certainly hadn't struck her as the extreme winter sports type.

"No," he replied sarcastically, "nicked the board."

"Jesus, sorry," Elise replied, putting her hands up defensively.

He began to ignore her again, as if not speaking to her would somehow just make her go away… but she'd gotten him to speak once, and she'd be damned if she gave up already.

"All the others are staying up at the Ivy Inn – "

"Don't like big crowds," he grunted irritably, lugging a newly hewn stack of wood to a big pile by his truck.

"Someone's got a lonely cowboy complex," Elise muttered under her breath.

"I _am_ a lonely cowboy, princess," he told her peevishly, drawing a long blue tarp over the wood and going back to his axe, "who are you, anyway? Oh, no, wait… let me guess. 'Bombshell', right? That model from the circuit?"

Although he said the word 'model' as if it were a large venomous insect, Elise laughed as warmly as she could while freezing her ass off talking to a bad-tempered hermit who obviously didn't like her. "Thought I told them to stop calling me that. So, you got a cabin down here or something?"

"I live out of my truck, and as you can see, I'm trying to build a fire. So, uh, bye."

_God damn you_.

Any other day and she'd have left by now. But she was still so damn curious; he was a new guy in town, and he was undeniably cute – even his death-glares were adorable. "Look, Ivy lodges competitors for free; I'm sure they – "

"Look," the cowboy retorted, finally turning to her, "I'm fine out here. I like it away from civilization, and I'm pretty sure I don't need some little blonde American princess telling me how to live my life."

He turned away from her to continue his wood gathering. Elise sighed and turned as well, trudging away from him in the direction of the lifts. Two years ago, she might have gotten mad at such an annoyingly tasteless comment, but after living on the circuit as the skinny blond model that also happened to be a sports star, she'd pretty much learned to ignore things like that. Most everyone thought of her as a brainless bimbo – everyone except a select few people: Moby, Eddie, and Zoe, one of the very few female friends she had on the tour. She'd given up three years at Brown to come to SSX, but tabloids and magazines were only interested in the juicy stuff: sex scandals and celebrity catfights, not some dorky Brown University almost-grad.

"Hey," her mouth said before she could tell it otherwise, forcing her to turn back to the man, "what's your – "

"Nate," he replied quickly, as if so eager to send her off that he couldn't even wait for her to finish the sentence, "Nate Logan. _Bye_."

"Misogynistic bastard," she grumbled quietly, turning again, grimacing and trying not to go back and slug him.

But she had to admit it: Nate might have been an asshole, but he was a mysterious, good-looking asshole whose brooding broncobuster trip was really getting to her. And like it or not, she was positive he was more excited about her than he was letting on.

* * *

Glad to see some interest... thanks to x-Red Eye-x, Nicole, Bedroom Dancing, and... 'N/A'.. for the reviews.

(I'm not really a smart freak... Elise just used a big word to show Nate that she's nota bimbo. Sorry Red! XD)


	3. Chapter 3

I'm baaaack...

...with a semi-long update! All rejoice!

Last time we saw everyone's favorite intrepid heroine, she had just gotten off to a bad start with broody broncobuster Nate, and was on her way up the lift to get in a few midnight runs before tomorrow's race.

Disclaimer: I can make Elise depressed and subsequently horny if I want to. So there.

* * *

An hour later, the lights went out.

Elise Riggs sat at the foot of a jump, board still attached, knees still throbbing from the awkward spill she'd taken a while ago off of the kicker ramp that was perched towering triumphantly just behind her. Her eyes, focused stubbornly on a patch of empty space just a few inches from her nose, hadn't budged for more than ten minutes. Even the abrupt absence of light didn't do much to distract her.

In some small way she hoped Eddie would somehow undergo a miraculous change of heart and character, and come bounding out of his crippled haze to save her at the last moment. Hell, she'd been thinking about nothing but the race for almost an hour now… why not indulge in some hapless wishing? By now she was sure Eddie was the last person she'd ever rely on again, but who knew – maybe this time he'd pull through.

She leaned farther on the snow, settling back on her elbows to give her wrists a break, and stared ahead at the sprinkling of lights on the far horizon, glimmering like a line of stars on the black mountain in the distance. A small, depressing scenario played out in her mind, highlighting the next morning when she woke up in complete dejection, prepared to ride both legs of the race or die trying; sitting at the summit beside her slightly more confident opponents, strapping in her bindings and hoping her thigh muscles wouldn't give out halfway through.

'Good luck, mate', Moby would chuckle at her, and zoom off to Zoe three miles away; Psymon would flash her devil horns before taking off, Kaori might shriek '_gokouun o inorimasu' _or some other obscure Japanese phrase at her, and if she was lucky, JP might try to hit on her by kissing her hand.

Then she'd take a deep breath and bomb down the slopes herself, possibly losing her lunch somewhere along the first leg and then most likely losing an arm or two to hypothermia during the second.

Something kicked up snow behind her, and she wished the rider would simply mow her down and quietly end it all.

A loud shout split the air.

"Holy _shit!_"

She almost grinned at the comical exclamation, but found that somehow, the muscles of her face were frozen into what seemed would be a permanent expression of indifference. She was disappointed, because she might like to give a smile to whoever was capable of lifting her spirits even the tiniest bit before the utter catastrophe that was tomorrow's race.

The next thing she heard was a thunderous crash and a series of yelps, followed quickly by a form on a snowboard sliding to what looked like a painful halt just beside her.

She scrutinized the accident-prone fellow, who had an amusingly pained expression on his face. Unzipped olive jacket, baggy red cargoes… obviously a little eccentric. He was blonde – _really _blonde; she could see the blinding cornsilk color even in the pitch-darkness – and had ice-blue eyes with a funny twinkle to them, as well as an unkempt two-day-old stubble that peppered his chin and cheekbones like a light sprinkling of sand.

"Hey," she said bemusedly.

He stared at her somewhat oddly. She supposed she really should have made a bigger deal of making him crash by sitting conveniently out of sight under a large jump.

"Lay around here often?" he asked.

She shrugged and looked complacently back out at the black sky. "Fell."

He seemed to be satisfied with this answer, and they sat in silence. For a moment Elise mused that if there were more people crazy enough to be riding Peak 2 at night in below zero weather, she'd soon have a whole entourage lined up across the mountain.

She thought with a small inward sneer that if their lives were anywhere as miserable as hers, then perhaps she could finally make some friends.

Then again, the next person might not have so much luck avoiding her. The blonde guy probably had to do a triple somersault just to move out of his collision course.

"You're new here, right?" she asked finally, at which the man turned to look at her again.

"Yeah. How'd you know?"

"Board," she replied complacently, and pointed at the green new-age design on the bottom of his snowboard, "No one does the funky patterns anymore… it's more of a Euro thing."

The blonde guy whistled. "Man, you're good. I just moved here from Paris."

"You neither look nor sound French."

"Swedish."

"Awesome. Name?"

"Viggo," the guy replied, extending his right hand with a grin, "Viggo Rolig."

"Good to meet you, Viggo," Elise said back, shaking the offered hand, somehow still too frozen to offer a smile and hoping she wouldn't appear too rude. "You know who I am?"

He gave her a quizzical glance. "Uh, should I?"

Elise smiled. It was nice to meet someone who not only didn't know but looked like he didn't give a shit either – in a different, slightly more compassionate way than that cowboy-wannabe Logan, of course. "My name's Elise Riggs. SSX vet… and model."

Unexpectedly, Viggo's reaction to the word was no more lewd than a slight distasteful wrinkling of the nose. "Modeling, huh? Sounds like a sucky business."

"Actually," she replied with surprise, "yeah. It does kind of suck."

"What's it like?" he queried, "Always thought it was a questionable work ethic."

"Yeah, tell me about it," she chortled, shaking her head, and then, with a failed sly grin in his direction, "Why're you so interested?"

"Hey, nothing but noble intentions here," he replied, shrugging as if shocked that she would insinuate such a thing, "but, as you can see: not exactly the modeling type myself."

_Could call you on that_.

"Just interested."

"Mm," she answered, "Yeah, I know."

She looked back out at the distant mountains. "It's not the greatest thing in the world… everyone thinks it's all glamorous and glitzy until they actually get there. Then it just becomes a huge hassle."

"You should look into boarding full-time, if you're already a vet," he offered pointedly.

"Hey, thanks, I probably will," she replied, amazed that she was actually taking this newbie's advice seriously.

The little churning feeling in her stomach informed her that he was charming, and although she couldn't exactly place _what_ was charming about him, she knew she was falling for it.

She began to guess at its source – perhaps it was the way his blindingly bright blonde hair kept falling into his eyes when he moved his head, or the comical, goofy chattering of his teeth whenever the wind chill picked up; maybe even the way he sat next to her, hands behind him on the snow to prop himself up, board dug into the powder below to keep himself from sliding off down the mountain in that certain confident, professional-yet-careless way.

Maybe it was even the husky quality of his voice that made her think he'd been shouting through a loud party all last night, or the way the muscles of his stomach shaped the loose shirt underneath his jacket, or the sharply defined line of –

_Bad Elise_, she reproached herself dully, _mind out of the gutter_.

She knew it wouldn't do any good – she would be hard pressed to chase her mind out of the gutter once it had crawled safely there to curl up and defend its smutty territory. And try as she might to ignore it, the SSX competition seemed to attract the young and hot like moths to a lamp, and Viggo was certainly gorgeous enough to distract her even from the handsome brooding broncobuster she'd met only hours ago.

Elise tried to impede the advance of her ravenous libido by rationalizing that it was fruitless to think that a guy like him was still single.

Or perhaps he was a playboy – a ladies' man, a flirt; a mischievous Don Juan who lived on sex and hopped countries like skipping stones in order to escape commitment.

She could tame him.

"So," Viggo said, shaking Elise guiltily out of her corrupted daydream, "think you could show me around the slopes? Already got lost once."

"Sure I could," she replied, now wishing more than ever that she could move her mouth enough to smile, "You're pretty brave to start out on Peak 2."

He grinned that annoyingly winning grin of his and said in return, "Woulda gone up to Peak 3, but I couldn't find the lift."

Elise chuckled, which must have looked strange devoid of facial expression. "There _is_ no lift. You've gotta take up an Osprey – it's free for competitors. You are a competitor, aren't you?" she put in hopefully.

"Yeah," he replied, goggling, "but _man_. We get free rides? Other guys pay, like, five times a fortune to get on those."

"Pretty cool to be on the top of the food chain."

"I feel kinda guilty though," he added, "you guys have to go through qualifying rounds to get into the competition, right?"

"Only in the first year," Elise returned, "after that, they just assume we haven't gotten suckier. Newbies usually have to try out, though."

"Yeah, I know. My qualifiers are sometime next week."

"Good luck, man… I hear the competition's pretty heavy this year." Then jerking her thumb apathetically back down at the woods near the Ivy Inn, "…met some tough-looking cowboy down there, too; looks like he may give you a run for your money."

"I can take him," Viggo retorted, lifting his arms in a macho flex and loosing a half-ferocious, half-adorable growl.

Finally, the muscles in Elise's face seemed to defrost, and she felt the corners of her mouth lift in a grin at the amusing sight of a skinny and slightly effeminate Swedish teen pumping imaginary iron.

"Ha," he said, "got you to smile. Thought you took Botox or something before riding."

"Nah; my cheeks just froze."

No way she was telling him what had actually thawed her out. Viggo faced front again, looking at the sky with a smug expression.

"Look," she said suddenly, "this is gonna sound really rude, but exactly how good of a boarder are you?"

Apparently she had lighted a fuse inside his head, because when he turned back to her she felt like he might twinkle her to death with the animated glimmer in his eyes.

"Biggest air in Europe with twelve seconds," he answered, making her utter a small 'hm' of approval, and then with a predatory grin, "… and world record holder for Kataklysm."

Elise's jaw dropped. "Shit… I knew it was some Swedish guy, but – holy balls of rolled up crap."

As Viggo appeared dubious at her choice of words, Elise tried to work her mind easily around the fact that she was sitting next to the record holder for Kataklysm, the French race track heralded as one of the longest and toughest in the world, and whose brother track, not the longest but _the _toughest, was SSX's own Gravitude. Elise herself had been flung unceremoniously through the sound barrier many times on the track, and knew by means of many broken bones that its numerous crevasses were not her friends.

"That's… incredible," she finally said, and Viggo shot her a smirk, but then she bared her teeth in a grin of her own, adding, "…but I'm more incredible."

"That so?" he challenged, elbowing her, to which she replied with an evil smirk, "Yeah, as a matter of fact."

As he watched she cleared her throat and struck a model pose, thrusting her shoulders up and tilting her head away to put her chin demurely to her shoulder. "Record for Kick Doubt at 3 mil flat…"

Viggo's eyebrows shot up until they were no longer visible under his hair, as the name Kick Doubt sent fear through the veins of Slopestylists everywhere, and she turned her head back with a toss of her frozen-solid ponytail, batting her eyelashes. "And track record for Gravitude with 1 minute 44 seconds."

"_Excellent!_" was all Viggo had in reply, eyes wide, still with that goofy grin on his face.

Gears turned in Elise's head. "Listen, Vig, my riding partner's a whacked-out lazy prick – "

Viggo nodded critically. "Hm."

"I say what I mean. Anyway, there's this whole tag-team race to start off the circuit, switching off riders halfway down the mountain – like an initiation thing, usher in the new season and all that – and it's tomorrow."

When she saw the interested gleam in his eyes she knew she'd hit a nerve of interest.

"Now here's the catch," she continued, "Newbs can't tear it up at the initiation unless they've got express vet permission. Get me?"

"I get you," he grinned.

"So let's do this the right way," she continued, and then more authoritatively as she extended her hand again, "Viggo Rolig, world record holder for Kataklysm and king of freakish air, will you be my riding partner for tomorrow's Peak to Valley?"

"Definitely," he replied without hesitation, shaking her hand. "I, Viggo Rolig, world record holder for Kataklysm and king of freakish air, accept your offer with pleasure."

Elise's lips curled into a euphoric grin before she could help herself, and she thought that if her arms hadn't felt too cold for large, sweeping motions, she could have pounced and hugged him right there. With much enjoyment she laughed long and hard at Eddie Wachowski, now partnerless, lounging at home and watching the circuit hype on the idiot box, sitting on his pansy ass and nursing his broken wrist, thinking that he'd conquered her.

But she was still standing. The next day she'd go to him with the gold, maybe even Platinum, just to see him gawk… and oh, how the little baby would cry.

"Hey," Viggo said beside her, "am I just going insane, or is your hair shiny?"

"Yeah, I took a shower a few hours ago… guess it hasn't dried yet."

"Are you crazy?" he retorted, getting to his feet at last and hopping on his board to face her, extending an arm to help her up, "You're gonna crash with the plague if you don't get the hell inside. Let's go."

"Five minutes," she complained, but he only grinned and shook his head, reaching down to grab her hand and pull her to her feet. "Sorry, girl. Come on; you can do it."

With a long-suffering groan and an exasperated eye-roll, she yielded to him, allowing herself to be lifted from the snow and set on her feet. He smirked back at her, kicking off and awakening her inner competitor, making her chase after him until they were in whooping, screaming contention for the first to reach the entrance of the Inn.

All the way down, she couldn't help but ask herself why she should bother with Eddie Wachowski when she had discovered the wonder that was Viggo Rolig.

* * *

Hm, there's a new playa in town. Somehow I gravitate to the new characters...

But maybe I've also decided that it's time for people to get over themselves and stop hating Viggo. What exactly is wrong with him? Is everyone just mad because he replaced JP as the Euro guy?

Thanks again to my reviewers, Red and Charshi (Eek... I've got this habit of un-slashing your slashable characters. Sorry!).


	4. Chapter 4

Ah, Allegra, I chide thee because I adore thee. You sweet little Avril Lavigne-lookalike, you!

However, I chide Marisol because I just don't like her.

Disclaimer: I own neither Allegra nor Elise. Nor Mac nor Marisol nor Viggo... you get the idea.

* * *

Allegra Sauvagess was not a happy camper.

Not only had everyone on the circuit apparently never heard the name 'Allegra' used outside of a medicinal sense, and therefore mocked her mercilessly for it at every chance they got, but the one guy she'd been eyeing since at least a few weeks ago showed up the next day at the lodge with Elise Riggs.

Not even as a potential boyfriend. Maybe just a guy-friend, like a friend who happened to be a guy.

She'd spotted him first – before Elise, at least – at the sign-ups a few days ago. Upon seeing him, she'd made sure to enroll for the same qualifier round as him, just so she could conveniently 'show up' for the same practice run. She'd painstakingly researched the information he'd scrawled down before going off to chat with some blonde surfer-dude at the other side of the room; she'd passed by him numerous times to get him to notice her.

And as she would like to tell anyone who was interested at the moment, she was not one who wantonly chased after every bit of boy-flesh that walked in front of her nose. No, she was a catch – a _damn good_ catch – and she didn't much like the idea of one of the very few guys she was interested in going googly-eyed over some other woman when, very simply, Allegra should be the only apple of his eye. Big Al Sauvagess drove men wild with her tomboy appeal and roguish allure, and hell if Viggo would go off and think he was too cool to fall for her.

She pouted; if he had just waited until after the damn qualifiers, she would have asked him to be her riding partner. But instead, just as she had, he'd gotten some vet to nullify his Newbie status just so he could participate in the Peak to Valley… or maybe just so he could get 'acquainted' with the oh-so-innocent Elise.

Mac wasn't even Allegra's real riding partner. He kept talking about some little Japanese girl named Kaori who had yet to show up at the circuit – and only yesterday had offhandedly asked her to be his temporary partner. She had only accepted because she wanted to show every vet on the mountain exactly how good she was, just to start off the circuit in her favor and maybe make a few lifelong rivals if she was lucky… but no way in hell had she imagined that Viggo would have done the same.

She sulkily watched them at the opposite end of the lodge, Elise hardly 'bundled up' in another one of those form-hugging zip-ups with – what was that, _fishnet_? The tramp was going to bomb down the slopes at sixty miles per hour with holes in her shirt?

Viggo evidently hadn't noticed his partner's lack of coverage. Apparently she'd just said something hilarious, because he was struggling to keep his sniggers under control. Allegra pouted, wondering if someone above were trying to smite her with insanity, because he even looked cute while snorting with laughter.

It wasn't fair – the hype about Elise Riggs was that guys shut down to all other women when they met her, but Allegra sure didn't see what was so great about her. Sure, her face was Covergirl-pretty, and her waist was about the size of Allegra's balled-up fist, but… did men actually find boobs that big _attractive_? She was sure she'd never be able to keep her balance on a board if she were that frontally lopsided.

Someone named Marisol – an unfairly-well-endowed, just-a-little-too-flirty-and-not-just-to-boys Hispanic diva who trilled her 'r's and batted her mascara-slathered eyelashes too much (after thinking about it, Allegra wasn't sure who she hated more) – who clamed to be Elise's mortal enemy, likened her to a petulant queen bee – getting whatever she wanted, no matter what it was, and no matter who she was getting it from.

"It's not fair," she informed Mac.

He had his headphones on, and she had to repeat her statement to him as he removed them. However, her romantic problems were far less interesting to him than his music, and his single insight fell just short of enthusiastic.

"Mm."

With this the headphones went back on, and with a snarl Allegra turned away to sulk.

There was a loud creak, then a split-second of mercilessly howling wind, and finally a ferocious crash as all eyes went to the door of the lodge, where a very large baby-blue lump had exploded inside only to slam the door behind it and stumble awkwardly in from the raging snowstorm outside.

"Mate, I'd go over and 'elp you out and all," Moby quipped with a grin and the air of a patronizing parent from his seat beside Zoe as chuckles spread throughout the lodge, "but you just gotta learn wot 'appens when you replace the good people on the team."

"Shut up," the blue lump snapped, "my goddamn ride broke down halfway here, and I had to walk a half a mile in that shit they call fresh powder. And besides," it added defensively, "Rahzel pulled out. I did _not_ replace him."

The parka came off, revealing an unexpectedly skinny blonde man underneath it.

"Uh, who's that?" Allegra whispered to Mac, and saw Viggo do the same across the room.

"Some punk named Atomika," Mac replied apathetically, "vets got together a few days ago and met him… he's the new event organizer, or something… everyone's supposed to hate him 'cause he took out Rahzel."

Even the unflappable Mac Fraser exploded into a fit of giggles as an enormous crash shook the room – in trying to dislodge the ludicrous overcoat, Atomika somehow turned himself upside down and knocked over a few dozen chairs in a strange chain reaction.

The entire lodge erupted into laughter – these were the moments that made life worth living.

'The entire lodge' did not include Allegra, who was busy staring at Elise and Viggo across the lodge. She thought bitterly that she could see the gears turning in the Canadian's head when she burst into sniggers and fell conveniently backwards into Viggo, who extended an arm to catch her as she helicoptered her arms in what was supposed to be a comical attempt to regain her balance but came off instead as a weight imbalance from her top-heaviness.

"Funny, funny," roared Atomika, who righted himself and apparently didn't think his spill had been so amusing. He had to raise his voice to a scream to be heard over the chaos in the lodge.

"Okay, children," he bellowed, "everyone know the rules?"

There was a general murmur of assent among the buzz of high energy and anticipation through the lodge, and Atomika decided to clarify for anyone who was fuzzy – which incidentally included the somewhat-embarrassed and slightly clueless Allegra, whose temporary partner Mac had gone fortuitously AWOL before the competition and had magically gotten out of informing her what the deal was with this whole 'Peak to Valley' thing.

"Partner A starts off at the summit, carves the thick, vicious but might-I-add_ sweet_ one-hour-old sprinkling of champagne powder, and switches off at Ruthless Ridge, where Partner B is waiting to run the crud and mashed potatoes to the bottom of Metro."

Allegra's brow did a good impression of her grandmother's best crocheting. Whatever the hell 'crud' and 'mashed potatoes' were in regards to boarding, she'd find out soon – she would be the one waiting at Ruthless Ridge to do the anchor run.

"You punch, you kick, you bite, you faceplant into a Chevy off the Teddy Bear Precipice – "

There was another murmur of giggling. Allegra had heard about that, at least – the 'Teddy Bear' incident, which saw the national event of Psymon Stark making a victory run down the backcountry while holding aloft his first-place prize, a giant pink stuffed bear, and soon thereafter taking an unforeseen flying dive off of a high cliff to slam straight into a waiting jeep. Although the whereabouts of the bear were unknown, as Atomika had apparently put it numerous times in jest, Psymon had come back relatively unscathed.

Atomika politely, but sarcastically, waited for silence. "So be as much of a cheating, conniving asshole as you can be, just as long as your ass crosses that finish line before everyone else's. Kapeesh?"

The lodge erupted in a blunt scream, and Allegra added her own shriek just for the hell of being part of everything. All around the lodge, partners were rising from their seats, catcalling in tandem, chanting in pairs with rehearsed routines – or in the case of Elise, getting a boost onto Viggo's back and extending her arms in a wild cheer aided by Moby and Zoe on the left and right, who seemed to be engaged in a sort of ritual tribal dance.

Allegra looked sideways at Mac, hoping that perhaps he would very enthusiastically find the energy to do some on-the-spot improvisation. At the moment he was 'very enthusiastically' cheering on the human pyramid across the room without a second glance to her, and so she turned back to Atomika, who was also chuckling and clapping at the spectacle.

"Okay," Atomika shouted, still watching the teetering peak of Elise on Viggo's shoulders, as if he were an excited football coach prepping his team for the playoffs, and then gesticulated with an accusatory finger at the main doors.

"There are about three million reporters out there who're all out for blood," he shouted over the relative lull. "They want faces. They want tears; they want screaming… they want someone to get pissed off and give some lucky idiot a nice bloody South Shore Birthday, all so it can go on the front page and the first screens of the six o' clock news."

He slammed his fist into his hand. "But we won't yield! They've got something else coming if they think they can pull this media hype shit on us."

Allegra listened with eager amusement as the air around her was filled with nods and mutters of accord. Atomika leaned in and lowered his voice to a confidential tone, forcing the lodge to go utterly silent in order to hear him.

"When you get out there," he said coolly and intently, "I want you all to go _wild_. I want you to snub the crap out of them; I want you to leave them in tears; in such a clutter of contusions and swollen black shiners that they'll all go crawling back to the safety of Mommy's blushing tummy."

Then, as the blonde teenager waited in heated anticipation, the new DJ exploded along with the support of the lodge.

"I want you to _trample them like cockroaches!_"

As Allegra got caught up in the excitement, throwing her hands up with the rest and shrieking her lungs out as they let out a fearsome collective roar, she began to like this guy; this supposed new guy who had a magical way with the wild crowd even though the last one was supposed to be better.

And as she snatched up her board and marched proudly with the feral horde of boarders alongside Mac, ready to do as Atomika commanded and stomp all over the swarming reporters like annoying insects, she also felt that it might not be so bad to be on the circuit with the vets, getting to know them; maybe even becoming 'one of the gang'.

Atomika's last unified cheer brought a silly grin to her freckled cheeks.

"Let's go kick some ass, gals!"

* * *

Anyone get the in-fic Brodi reference?

No?

Okay. Well, finally, the big event is here! Note that I am terrible at writing action, so the actual snowboarding part may be lacking somewhat... but wish me luck!


	5. Chapter 5

I'm still alive!

When we left off, our intrepid heroes were marching off to the lift to ride up to the start gate. Gasp! What will happen in the grueling race down the powder-covered slopes? What will happen during the tense and nerve-wracking competition?

If it even gets that far?

Disclaimer: Characters are not mine. Blah blah blah.

* * *

The lift was far too small to accommodate nine contestants, especially when each pair was constantly shifting against each other in search of a more-than-three-inch personal bubble.

Elise thought she could feel herself blushing – something smelled good. _Masculine_ good. And she wasn't sure who it was coming from: Viggo to her left or JP Arsenault, squashed right up against her backside and appearing to be loving each second of it. He was turned away from her as he sized up the competition in Moby across the room, but she had a feeling that the little smile was directed at her, and – Christ, what the hell was that intoxicating scent?

One thing was for sure. If he tried to cop a feel, the ensuing broken limbs would not be Elise's fault, and she certainly would not take Marisol's crap for it.

She tried not to let it bother her, and turned her head to Viggo, who had been engaged in a peculiar staring contest with Psymon and only broke away to fix her with a thumbs-up gesture. She almost hit him – gawking at Psymon Stark was no way to go into a race without any major concussions or black eyes. The best way was usually to keep one's head down and avoid all eye contact, and like a hungry lion, if he wasn't interested in the quarry, he would let you go, no questions asked.

Mac's headphone music floated lazily amidst the rumbling of slippery lift cables in a mess of loud drum beats and bass notes, and did absolutely nothing to lessen the tension within the tiny enclosure. Elise felt Viggo's nervous anxiety beside her, and was herself afraid to speak. It was anyone's guess as to how things got so tetchy between contestants only hours before the race began, or even as to how it only happened when there were races. Slopestyle was fine and easy; one person went on at a time, and if they screwed it up, then in Atomika's words, 'tough shit – deal with it'; but races were different animals entirely. One move and a perfect run could get mucked up by some poor loser who decided to get in the way at the last moment.

And when it was neck-and-neck, two ravenous vultures sticking their heads out and staring each other down peripherally, just to be the first one to cross the finish line, each prepared to rip the other's throat out should they be beaten, each one knowing that although it was just a bit further, there would always be a first and a second, and whoever got it was a fortunate son of a bitch because at that point there was no skill left, only pure instinct and blind, rotten luck?

Yes, it was a little stressful. Just a little.

With a trained eye, Elise looked across the small space and tried to determine who was the most nervous out of them all. Discounting herself, she could see a distinct vibration in Marisol's arms – but maybe that was just the thin pink shirt talking (Elise might be a bit skimpy herself, but at least her arms were covered with at least two layers). Zoe and Moby were her biggest competition, and they looked less apprehensive than merely psyched. Elise snorted; it would be their mistake if they went in all confidence and no caution.

Mac looked like he couldn't care less, and she contemplated going over to tap him on the shoulder just to inform him that they were, in fact, just about to do a Peak-to-Valley while it was blowing snow outside, and that if he were to survive jumping out of the lift car at the top of the mountain without toppling over, he'd better shut off his iPod and get worrying. His Newbie partner, on the other hand, looked to have more of the right idea… but why was she staring at _Elise_ of all people with such a hangdog look on her face?

Elise's heart performed a feat of great acrobatic skill as a chorus of two voices cut through the deadly silence, slicing through the cabin like a giant, unwelcome knife and making her breath hitch unpleasantly.

"_What shall we do with a drunken sailor? What shall - _" sang Moby and Zoe before Psymon snapped back at them to put a cork in it.

Moby stopped, but Zoe, knowing with certain smugness that she was the only girl on the circuit at whom Psymon had qualms about taking a swing, didn't. Her low voice continued heartily, ringing the light, airy refrains of a jovial sea shanty, highlighting such disturbing concepts such as 'shaving his belly with a rusty razor' before Elise thought she could take no more of the awkward blaring noise while the rest of them glowered in silence.

"Really, give it a rest," she barked, to which Zoe shot her an irritable glare.

"Something wrong, princess?" she sneered.

"Yeh, Curves," Moby concurred, "You guys need to loosen up. Shake things out a bit."

"If you don't shut up," Psymon put in with a dangerous half-scowl, half-grin, "The only things shaking'll be your knees in the cold."

With this he put a hand on the handle of the lift-car door, petting it as if it were a small loveable household animal, and as Moby shrugged but obeyed nonetheless, Elise concluded with a happy grin that she was pleased after all to be his fellow Canuck.

"Is this guy for real?" Viggo muttered beside her, still eyeing the affectionate way Psymon stroked the door switch, and she chose not to answer.

A voice blared through the cablecar and made her flail embarrassingly after performing a flexible half-twist of surprise. Shooting a death-glare at anyone who so much as looked at her strangely, she turned her attention to the loudspeaker.

"'Kay, kiddies," Atomika's dulcet tones rang cheerfully, "Stop one's a-comin' up. We're dropping you off a mile before Ruthless Ridge's start gate. Have fun!"

The loudspeaker cut short with a loud fizzing noise, and grimly Elise reached down to strap on her bindings, stopping a moment as she felt _something_ touch her rear end, but eventually dismissing it as JP's friendly way of saying 'good luck'. He could have waited for a better time; as far as she knew, he was getting out here too, and there would be plenty of time for that sort of thing down below where they would be free from Marisol's hawk-eyed gaze.

"Sorry to leave you with the big stretch," Elise told Viggo a moment later, jerking her thumb upwards at the menacing figure of the mountain above them, to which he shook his head with a smirk. "Nah, I like a challenge. _Viel Glück_," he added with a sly grin.

_You know German? What are you, perfect?_

"_Bonne chance _to you too, _branleur_," JP drawled dismissively from behind her, "Lead ze way, _ma cherie_."

This time she _knew _it was JP who gave her a light push on the ass, sending her board skidding across the floor of the lift to grind noisily over the side of the wide-open door with a high-pitched scream to match it.

"Hey – asshole!" she heard Viggo yell resentfully out the door, presumably after JP who had leapt out just behind her.

That crazy goddamn Frenchman. Not only had he probably made her scratch her board to hell and back on the coarse metal of the lift floor, but this was a hell of a drop, and he could have at least given her a little warning; she wasn't keen on the idea of going into a race with a broken neck, or at least a worse case of the nerves than the one she already had.

She crashed rump-first into the ankle-deep powder, severely resenting JP as he landed squarely beside her on his board, toe-turning to a stop as he waited like a perfect gentleman for her to get up. She fixed him with an incensed glower, vaguely hearing Moby and the new girl above shouting over the din to send off their partners like war heroes while she sat on her backside like an idiot after being pushed off of a lift by an overzealous – what could she call him that would accurately convey her fury?

"Frog," she yelled when she couldn't think of anything else, not caring in the least whether or not he might find it offensive. JP blew a kiss her way and promptly sent a three-foot wave of snow over her head as he kicked off and sped away towards the Ruthless Ridge start gate.

* * *

Okay, so maybe we didn't get to the race yet. Next chapter, promise!

Do we need a translation guide?

_Viel Glück - _Official language in Switzerland is German. So it's all good... means 'good luck', duh.

_Bonne chance - _Meh. Baby French. 'Good luck' as well.

_Branleur - _French insult, roughly 'playboy'

_Ma cherie - '_My dear', yadda yadda

Sorry if Elise's little slur ended up offending anybody. I can remove it if you like.


	6. Chapter 6

This is shaping up to be a real epic, huh? A real epic; a huge, whopping six-chapter epic...

Well, it's still one of my longest.

I really ought to thank Charshi, my 100 consistent reviewer (who really needs to upload 'Of Epic Proportions'). By now I just want to meet her because she sounds like such a fun person. And as well, here's a shout out to x-Red Eye-x - my current goal is to get onto Red's favorite stories list... and by the holy grace of the Flying Spaghetti Monster, I will try my best!

But thanks to everyone who's reviewed - Nicole, Bedroom Dancing, and 'NA' of course :-)

Disclaimer - I own absolutely nothing. Oh and, funky section breaks because I hate FFnet's formatting system.

* * *

The snow Atomika had so lovingly described as 'champagne powder' did not look half so appealing as its name might suggest.

Instead, it looked quite honestly like vomit. Or at least, it looked like what vomit might look like if a very fat man had just finished drinking a few gallons of milk and cheese, and then had emptied it over a snow-starved mountain.

Elise sat next to her gate in a large pasty lump, still much whiter than the yellowish substance surrounding her, with nothing much to do other than wait and marvel at the stunning lack of spectators filling the box on either side of the start gate. The air, which had previously been ripe with balls of fluff, had somehow become tepid and nearly warm, and felt positively wrong without jeering, screaming fans shouting creative obscenities at random contestants.

She couldn't figure it out. Sure, the lift had been too covered in powder to make out much below, but shouldn't it have taken just a while longer for it all to melt into slush? And, God help her if her fears had come true, where the hell were the fans? If the circuit had taught her anything at all, it was –

Well, it was 'zip up before going into freezing temperatures.' But it was also 'never, ever go out and race without a section of fanboys screaming their heads off and braving the elements just to support you'. And sadly, it was true… as much show as she could put on about being an independent Amazon woman with no weaknesses, Elise Riggs was absolutely nothing without her faithful cheering section.

"Z'is ees not snow," she heard JP state delicately and matter-of-factly beside her. "Z'is is… _crap_."

_Thanks, chum_, she sneered inwardly. She had reached that astute conclusion a full half hour ago.

"Are you serious?" Zoe scoffed, mouth twitching as she tried her very best to act cheerful, "I dunno about you guys, but I carve crud like this in my sleep."

"You don't 'carve' crud," Elise retorted moodily, "you mash it. Or, in this case, you might have to part it like the Red Sea."

Zoe shrugged indifferently, muttering a small 'geez, chill out' under her breath. Although she was trying as usual to disguise her anger as sarcasm and composure, she was so clearly pissed off that it made Elise embarrassed to even think she was trying to cover it up.

The blonde did not blame her in the least. This kind of red-sky, soggy-snow weather was definitely enough to make even Zoe pop her cork.

When she looked around and saw that absolutely nothing had changed since her last appraisal – ugly maroon sky, check; melty snow dribbling every which way like drool, check; uninteresting people surrounding her and making everything generally depressing, check – Elise decided to people-watch for a while, and chose Zoe as her target. However, the aforementioned person, although quite obviously bored out of her skull, had apparently fallen asleep and was currently standing motionless with her back against the booth, eyes closed and ever-present frown plastered across her mouth. Elise's first thought, after she felt her eyes begin to glaze over, was that either Zoe had entered cryogenic stasis, or that while Elise had not been looking, she had become very apt at meditation.

Since Elise would rather not provoke JP's attentions by staring at him, and she was beginning to think that the new girl in the corner was shaping up to be a real recluse, she decided to keep on glaring at Zoe until she did something embarrassing. By now, even a small nose-pick would be ample entertainment.

"What are you doing?" Zoe finally snapped.

"Evaluating your unconscious mannerisms," Elise replied evenly, at which Zoe sniffed. "Of which there are none. So get off my back."

Glumly, Elise turned away and again gave her attention to the little blonde sitting morosely behind her, a few yards away, hoping beyond all hope that perhaps she might be able to strike up a halfway interesting conversation. Unfortunately, the kid seemed far too interested in picking at her nails to notice Elise's expectant gaze.

_Last start gate…nice and far away from everybody else. Aren't you a moody little teenager?_

She almost cracked open her mouth to loose the first snide comment that came to mind, but after a moment of contemplation decided not to nurse her irritability and give the girl a hard time. It definitely wouldn't be great for her mental health; she distinctly remembered someone lecturing her on the detrimental effect that superiority could have on one's sense of self.

Or maybe it was that indulging in one's own pomposity could stunt the growth of character? It had been something with far too many unnecessary two-dollar words; she was neither surprised nor disappointed that she couldn't remember it. At any rate, the newbie couldn't be more than nineteen, and that orange-and-black T-shirt simply screamed 'rebellious adolescent'… not to mention that hideous beanie, which was a certain color she could only describe as 'three-day-old spinach vomit.' Obviously she hadn't yet grown out of the 'life sucks' phase – but once again, playing high-and-mighty would only make Elise feel like an old woman.

Plus, JP was watching, and her tiny remaining shred of pride would not allow her to appear overly stuck-up in front of him.

_Curse you_, she thought, narrowing her eyes at the seated Frenchman, who grinned and waved, _curse you and your stupid cologne._

After she switched her position and crossed her legs, both of which had fallen completely asleep during the long and awkward sit, she wondered what Viggo was doing. He and the other contestants had undoubtedly started the race already, so in theory, they should be coming down the slope right about now… but then again, anyone would be lucky to throw down a perfect run on the Throne, and taking that Peak to Valley line through all the tracks on the upper part of the mountain would be murder for a newbie…

_Idiot_, she cursed herself suddenly, as the unpleasant image flooded her mind of Viggo appearing suddenly in a stretcher, _why the hell'd you send Viggo up there? Compared to you he's a freaking kid; even Mac took the hit for junior over there!_

It really didn't make sense. Viggo was the newbie; he should have stayed exactly where she now sat, getting ready to run the leg of the Peak to Valley and usher in the new year with a soft, easy race. And instead he was up there somewhere in the fog and the mist, battling what was probably still-falling snow, the deadliest chasms she'd ever seen, and – terror of all terrors – Psymon Stark. Even the fury of Marisol scorned held no candle to Psymon's special 'race personality' on a good day… he'd bite and kick with the best of them if it meant the difference between first and second, and even Viggo's imaginary iron-pumping wouldn't stand a chance.

Elise was _really_ beginning to wish she'd gone up instead; even though the five-hundred foot gulches would do her no favors, perhaps Psymon might have reservations about attacking a skinny blonde woman in lieu of a skinny blonde man.

_Dammit. Stop worrying_._ The king of freakish air isn't going down anytime soon._

A testy, drawling voice split Elise's worry into neat pieces, and she was glad to turn her attention to its source, who had risen contemptuously from his spot in the snow to shoot glares at his bemused companions. If Elise hadn't been in a generally bad mood, she would have found it annoying; they were all in the same ugly situation – possibly stranded in the middle of a melting mountain with no one around for miles and a possibly defunct race miles above – and there was no point in acting snooty when he was going to rot here with the rest of them.

"Eef we do not get moving soon," JP stated, accent flaring curtly with each 'r' – but whatever threat he had in mind was cut off abruptly by Zoe.

"Shut up."

Relieved by this frank and straightforward rebuttal, Elise gave a genial 'thanks, Zoe', but was immediately rebutted herself as the younger woman snapped back, "No – I mean _shut up_."

Rather than get up and slug the little harpy a new black eye to match all that face paint, Elise obligingly closed her mouth, stared crossly, and waited.

She was surprised when, after a moment, she actually did hear something. It wasn't very loud at all – really, if Zoe hadn't issued the command of silence, she never would have picked it up – but once she caught the strain, it seemed to get louder and louder, until at last she realized that it was not a chorus of birds as she'd thought, but instead a chorus of voices, all rising in a fierce panic as they cheered someone on vigorously.

Then a sudden wash of adrenaline and jealousy – Jesus, what wouldn't she give to be at the center of that? What twit exactly had decided to mysteriously remove the fan boxes from either side of the start gate, leaving it devoid of life-giving applause and cheering? And most importantly –

Elise frowned.

"Did they just shout 'flamboyant weezy'?"

The word 'shit' circled in large letters around Viggo's spinning head as he tried desperately to stop his world from revolving queasily around him. 

After deducing cleverly that he was currently pulling quadruple somersaults through very cold snow, he tried to sort out his thoughts enough to remember what had just happened, and hazily recalled pulling a very embarrassing drunken wobble off of a very large ramp, and subsequently bombing full-speed into something solid and metallic.

_No way_, he recited, wincing as his entire body began to pound, _there is simply no fucking way I just slammed into a telephone pole._

No wonder he heard the crowd going insane all around him in the boxes – he didn't even want to think about how utterly unintelligent he had looked. Faceplanting a solid object on a board was not only stupid, but something that he shouldn't have been able to pull off if he tried… yes, it should have been impossible. Even racing while smashed, stoned, or otherwise inebriated should not have yielded such an awkward situation. Christ, when was the last time he'd even _seen_ someone do that – and even then, hadn't the chick actually _been _drunk…?

And, he noted as his back hit something hard, when the hell was he going to start losing momentum? If he didn't get back up soon, he was going to end up rolling rather than boarding past the finish line, with numerous broken limbs and some severely pounding dignity…

Then miraculous inspiration struck him as he felt his board push off of something solid – as he magically regained his footing and somehow reoriented his spinning vision towards the bottom of the mountain, he remembered first with relief and then with ensuing anger that he had not, in fact, accomplished the pole-faceplant entirely on his own.

Psymon Stark, currently bent into the wind not ten feet away, had pushed him.

"You asshole!" Viggo snarled.

He was more than a little annoyed when Psymon proceeded to howl with laughter over the whistle of air, and he soon made the final descent into fury when he saw the Canuck inching ever forward, leaving the arguably lighter and less-favored-by-gravity Viggo a precious few seconds behind. Scowling into the wind, squinting and kicking his hind foot back to execute a sharp turn, he hoped against hope that the extra movement wouldn't add too much time to his run… and furthermore, since when had pushing someone off the lip of a jump straight into a waiting pole been part of the SSX curriculum? Sure, Atomika hadcommanded the contestants to punch, kick, and be 'conniving assholes', but he'd thought that meant _off_ the damn course. Boarding sure as hell took all of Viggo's concentration, so who the hell had time to coordinate a punch during a race?

In a moment, he realized with a sinking feeling that obviously Psymon did, since as soon as he came by for another sweep, a fist swung out of midair, headed in a crash course towards his face.

Viggo's anger now would be a mere shadow in comparison to what it would be if in addition to his smarting pride, he began spouting blood from a broken nose. He took great care of all of his facial features – discounting the three-day-old stubble that he'd 'accidentally' neglected to shave off before heading out – but above all he prided his nose.

It wasn't one of those silly hawkish Swedish honkers he'd seen so many of his friends bemoan throughout high school; it was a good nose, straight and short and completely devoid of lumps, acne, or protrusions at odd angles for as far back as he could remember. This nose had gotten him safely through numerous Picture Days in his younger years when the rest of his face had been busy breaking out in pimples, and had never once gotten in the way of close kisses like big noses so often tended to do. And therefore, there was no way that daft punk Stark would cause any damage to such a perfect specimen simply because he was 'Sketchy Psymon' and could do whatever the hell he wanted.

So, in a flash of quick reflexes, Viggo ducked down as if he were about to rocket off of an enormous hit, absorbing imaginary shock under his board, hunching his back, thrusting his arms to either side to keep his center of gravity even as he bee-lined straight ahead… and although the feeling of ice kicking upwards into the sleeves of his jacket made him painfully aware of his uncomfortable proximity to the ground, he managed after the first few wobbles to ride steady with his knees bent nearly double.

To his momentary delight, he dropped well out of Psymon's striking range, and heard the _swoosh_ of his fist as it rocketed overhead like an enormous raw-flesh atomic bomb. And for a second he thought he felt his stomach squirm nearly pleasantly – the crowd, which had previously been screaming itself hoarse with bloodthirsty calls of 'fraggle!' was now enveloped in gasps and murmurs scattered among multitudes of laughter.

The world must have been going to Hell in a handbasket if the fans were actually cheering on a newbie… a skinny, platinum-blonde newbie who had just broken his face on a large telephone pole, nonetheless.

Viggo's stomach, which had just begun to settle back into place, lurched again when he saw his huge rival swing slightly off balance, as if he hadn't at all expected his blow to miss. In a blaze of lunacy, and in a motion hardly broken from that of crouching down in the first place, he straightened his aching legs and heaved his weight to the left, throwing out his shoulder, tucking in his head, and waiting with bated breath for the impact.

All Viggo heard was Psymon's abstract grunt of surprise and confusion as elbow met abdomen in the sudden collision, and as he thrust his arms out to lend Psymon a hand in his swift descent toward the ground, there came a series of bellows and yelps, in tandem with a sudden burst of snow from below as Psymon Stark went down in a tangle of arms, legs, and hopefully a whole damn lot of pain.

_Kiss that,_ he couldn't help but crow – not only had this skinny blond newbie dodged a mammoth blow like a black belt, but he'd taken down Sketchy Psymon with a simple tap on the side. Hell yeah, that crowd damn well better be cheering him on like a vet – he'd go down in history; starting tomorrow headlines would read: 'Reigning Loony Bin Inmate Taken Down a Peg by Swedish Newcomer.' He'd be the new freaking _name_ of SSX, 'cause Psymon had absolutely nothing on him, and if he could stand up to Psymon, he could stand up to anyone on the circuit…

And yet somehow, with a very silly grin on his face that he couldn't seem to get rid of, all he could think of was how impressed Elise would be when she found out what had happened.

_Idiot. Eyes on the road._

Basking in the applause and pondering his good fortune definitely played a close second to the praise of his riding partner, but there was no way he was going to let the race slide because he was getting cocky.

"In first place," roared the loudspeaker over the masses of fans as he banked off of the steep incline into the gate, "it's Viggo Rolig!"

Damn skippy it was… and in first place he'd stay, right up until he reached Elise. Whenever that would be.

To his surprise, the loudspeaker blared to life again – "Buckle up, folks! Next stop: the switchoff at Ruthless Ridge! Please note that no seats are available for the viewing of the switchoff itself…" The loud voice grew fainter as he rocketed over the next hit, absorbing the ramp with his legs and shooting off the incline like a cork out of the bottle. The next thing he saw was the monstrous crest of an enormous slope as he cleared it with a thump, and was and treated suddenly to a panoramic view of the entire mountain valley, complete with lodge, Ivy Inn, and –

There was Elise Riggs, a tiny dot in the distance, whose white clothing, bright hair and – in his opinion – sheer force of personality brought her into stark relief against what were some very dull and yellowish surroundings in comparison.

* * *

Happy happy joy joy, I made a two-section chapter... 

Just to clarify, since I made a few screw-ups in the last chapter: current riding partners are Moby/Zoe, Allegra/Mac, Viggo/Elise, Marisol/JP, and Psymon/Psymon (yeah, he's doing Peak to Valley alone). As should have been apparent in the chapter itself, Elise, JP, Allegra, and Zoe are riding the leg, and Moby, Mac, Viggo, Marisol, and Psymon are at the top.

So now that that's cleared up, Hallelujah! I wrote from a GUY's point of view! Sign 367 that the apocalypse is coming! I also got to the race part like I promised... next chappie will definitely provide an ending to the first race.

Gasp.


	7. Chapter 7

THANK YOU GOD! My computer has finally stopped **spazzing out** on me and is finally letting me post.

Wow... it's been like a year. Or two. But if this story hasn't gotten old, I humbly ask to be absolved of the waiting-game blame, even though I will probably do it again and apologize again (hey! Like Don Imus!) sometime soon. Charshi, Red (I know you're no longer Red, but it's a habit, plus, it's such a good movie), please don't hate me for being such a lazy bum :)

So the 6-chapter epic now turns into a 7-chapter epic. No action, again, although the next one is the last chapter of the race. Promise. I cannot possibly drag this out any more than I have already.

New chapter announcement system!

_For Two  
Chapter 7_

At the very moment that Viggo Rolig bombed over the crest, body bent into the wind, sporting what she considered quite some adorable beginnings of a black eye, Elise resolved to start believing in God.

He was not dead. He had evidently seen better days, since she'd learned from Zoe in the past half minute that 'flamboyant weezie' did in fact indicate that he'd faceplanted a pole at the speed of sound (his aim must be impeccable; there was nary a pole on the entire mountain that was more than three inches across)… but his limbs were intact, his eyes could twinkle with the best of them, and he looked damn happy to see her.

So happy, in fact, that he failed to notice the crackling ball of pure insanity hurtling towards him from just over the jump. _Christ,_ but Psymon looked mad.

"Viggo!" Elise bellowed, cupping her hands around her mouth, "_Viggo!"_

He grinned and waved at her. A few feet away, JP chuckled.

Elise felt despair welling up and popping the bubble of happiness brought on by the heroic appearance of her riding partner. He'd made it so far, he'd tackled the Throne; hell, he _deserved_ to be cheerful, but damn it – Psymon was definitely going to slug him in the back of the head before he got anywhere near the switchoff. The crazy Canuck didn't even need to waste the time to tag a partner; he'd be halfway down Snow Jam before she even got out of the start gate.

"Behind you!" she shrieked futilely, and saw him frown and shake his head with a shrug. His mouth formed the shape of 'what,' and she began to hop up and down on her board, creating small showers of snow and thoroughly spraying Zoe behind her.

"Ugh," Zoe complained, "Take a chill pill, princess. It's not like he's gonna die or something."

"!?!?" said Elise.

On the slope above, Viggo began to navigate a series of freshly packed moguls. With horror, Elise noticed that behind him, Psymon had thrown aside all style or finesse, and was in fact bombing over the two-foot lumps with nary an intention of switching direction or slowing his speed.

Elise screeched again, but aside from making JP shout obscenities at her, it made very little impact in the snow-insulated air. Sauvagess's spinach-puke beanie bobbed up and down in her peripheral vision.

Her head didn't even have time to spin before Psymon and Viggo were neck and neck, and she began to claw at her cheeks – Jesus, Sketchy was chasing him down like a bulldog! She half expected Viggo to go down in a spray of blood…

Suspended in fear, Elise was significantly underwhelmed when Psymon neither slugged Viggo nor mowed him down, but simply scooted past him without so much as a glance his way.

"Dude," she said in amazement, "did you – did you – "

"Fuckin' A," Zoe mused, "gotta give him credit. Wonder what he did to make Psy go soft."

"Perhaps, after all, 'e ees not so… 'ow do you say?" JP put in, "…pathetic."

"Oh please," Elise snapped, "fricking hoppity-skippity frog. Since when were you such a macho freak?"

"Do you _know _me?" JP sniffed incredulously.

"Right," Elise sniped, "I forgot that you're the asshole who pushed me out of a moving lift a few hours ago."

"Elise!" Zoe interrupted, "be a bitch later. Your newbie's here."

And so he was – all Elise heard was a small cry, getting louder by the second –

"…_EliiiiiIIIIIIIIIISE!"_

– and hardly had time to turn around and react before something rammed her in the back, sending her hurtling forwards – out of the start gate, onto a massive ramp where her thigh muscles struggled to absorb the impact, and into the second leg of the race.

* * *

. 

All thoughts of Allegra's MIA riding partner abruptly left her as soon as she saw Viggo clear the crest of the mountain.

Unlike Elise, who was too busy throwing hissyfits to so much as turn around and support him, Allegra watched him like a hawk as he descended the slope. She wondered how old he was, and then thought for what must be at least the seventh time that it would make _so_ much more sense if she just ditched Smack Fraser and hooked up with someone who didn't consider hip-hop the second coming of Jesus.

According to the loud, obnoxious freaking out of Elise and her buddies, the little blur tailing Viggo was a cause for concern. Allegra didn't know what the big stink was about "Sketchy Psymon", but he didn't look so bad from a distance… hell if it was so great to snowboard in a tank top; lots of people did that. In fact, Allegra herself would have done so if she hadn't been so afraid of coming off as some rebellious weirdo who tried to be different just for the sake of being different.

Jesus, Viggo was a showboater. What was that, a 760 stalefish? Off the tiniest little jump, too – what was he doing, trying to lose speed? Oh God, but he was such an adorable showoff… it was amazing, the way his body moved so carelessly but somehow stuck every landing, and why the hell was he _so_ _blonde_? It was like he had a personal sun on the top of his head…

She had to throw herself out of the way to avoid the bullet of skin and white cloth that was Psymon, which shot through the start gate like a speed demon and zoomed off into the second leg, and upon regaining her balance, refrained from reminding Elise to turn around and avoid a painful reunion with her riding partner.

The French guy whistled at her as she soared off with a shriek, and Miss Butch grinned and waved, but Allegra focused instead on the new arrival, who yelled something weird after Elise's retreating back (in German, maybe? Damn, but she wished she'd spent more time learning languages in France...) and slapped off his bindings before toppling like a pile of bricks into the snow.

"Dude, that's so gross," Miss Butch griped as he began to make slushy snow-angels.

"No shit," he groaned back, "gimme a break, my legs are effing shot… and Jesus Christ Superstar, I thought Kataklysm had crevasses, but damn! The Americans have it right!"

"You 'ave an accent," the French guy stated matter-of-factly.

Allegra could smell his cologne at ten paces, and wrinkled her nose in distaste.

"Yeah?" Viggo answered amiably. "You're not so all-American yourself. What province? You, I mean."

"_Auvergne._"

Viggo sat up and donned a very Cheshire grin. "_Magnifique. C'est étonnant a moi que vous avez sachiez dont j'était français, parce que j'ai cru que mon anglais était parfait… mais si vous êtes de l'Auvergne, je crois que nous soyons les meilleurs amis."_

"You nerd," Miss Butch said as the French dude gave a smug smile – which by now Allegra assumed was not smug at all, but simply the way he looked all the time. Her head was still spinning, and once again she wished she hadn't been quite so eager to move to the US and take up professional snowboarding instead of staying home in Alsace and getting an actual education. Not all guys could be won over with mad winter sports skills… but then, if Mac would just show up, maybe she could leverage those too.

"Make nice with the French," Viggo said with a smirk, "they're vicious little pansies when they want to be."

"Watch it," the Frenchman warned, "your _français_ is not 'alf bad, but I 'ave no qualms about kicking your _derrière_ should it come to that."

"Not doubting you. Name?"

"Jean-Paul Arsenault. JP for short."

"It's a pleasure." Viggo extended a hand – not moving from his spot, and making JP lean over to reach him – "I'm Viggo Rolig."

He glanced at Miss Butch, who sized him up and then abandoned the effort, seeing as he obviously didn't want to play staring games with her. "You too, warpaint. Got a name?"

"Normally I'd put a sock in assholes like you," she said, "but you're all right, I guess. Name's Zoe Payne."

"Nice. So, who's the moody chick over there?"

Allegra froze, and not just in fear that he'd noticed her. _Moody chick?_

"Dunno," Zoe replied – the nerve! – "Your fellow newbie, right? You should know."

"Nah, never seen. You got a name?" He grinned. "Or I could just call you 'moody chick.' I kinda like it."

"Who the hell do you think you are?" her mouth snapped, without her permission. "Just because I didn't jump up and lick your face, huh? Moody chick, my ass."

"Okay, sorry, pigtails," he said, putting his hands up defensively, "just making conversation."

Allegra waited till he'd turned around again and gave herself a good smacking across the forehead. No wonder she was lonely and desperate. She was a total spaz. She could hear the cheering squad now: go Allegra! Try to be cool and impress stupid Miss Butch and her French buddy. Great way to start the circuit.

"Didn't know she had it in her," she heard Zoe chuckle in a not-so-well-concealed whisper, before crowing, "ha! Here comes Moby."

"Moby," Viggo echoed, "British guy? Dreadlocks?"

"The one and only."

"Nice. I met him last night… he's a pretty cool dude, you're lucky."

"Ain't it the truth?" Zoe grinned. "Catch you later, Viggo."

Viggo gave a cavalier half-salute as Zoe, having received a hell of a 'tag' from her speeding partner, shot out of the start gate and rocketed out of sight like a bottle cork with bright red pigtails.

"Mo-o-o-o-oby," Viggo catcalled, hands cupped over his mouth as Moby skidded to a halt and fell backwards in exhaustion.

"Oi, Viggo," Moby replied, "I'd move, mate, but bloody hell, the ankles've seen better days."

JP emulated Moby, landing with a plop between the Brit and the Swede – wonderful, a menagerie of Western Europe – and uttered a long-suffering groan.

"My dear Marisol 'as obviously broken somes'ing," he sighed.

"Don't feel bad, mate," Moby said cheerfully, slapping JP on the back, "at least you're not aviation blondie over there. I made a total bollocks of that jump off the Throne, but man, at least I actually came back round to get Royal Payne."

It took a while before Allegra realized that she was the 'aviation blondie' to whom Moby was referring – seeing as all three were now looking sympathetically her way.

First moody chick, now aviation blondie. What the hell?

"Uh," she said, "what? Why are you looking at me?"

"You did not 'ear?" JP asked, "ze Smack has… 'ow does one say?"

He stifled a chuckle, and Viggo elbowed him. "Don't be an ass, man. It's gotta be rough."

"What?" she demanded, feeling her stomach doing somersaults. "What happened? What did Mac do?"

"'is other partner is already 'halfway down ze next leg," JP said dismissively.

"He ditched you, luv," Moby continued apologetically, "sorry's all I can say. He took a little shortcut off the Throne… turns out he and Kaori were planning to meet at a switchoff the whole bloody time. She's gonna finish the race wif him, not you."

Allegra's world turned a particularly livid shade of red.

_End _

For now.Sorry Allegra.

Also, if you look at a British Slang dictionary for 'aviation blondie', you will find that it's actually a bloody rude thing to say. Don't worry. Moby does it to all the newbies.


End file.
